


working relationship

by loganes



Series: the space between blue lines [2]
Category: Hockey RPF
Genre: Colorado Avalanche, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-05-07
Updated: 2016-05-07
Packaged: 2018-06-07 00:51:22
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,400
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6778099
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/loganes/pseuds/loganes
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>They don't speak unless they're on the ice.</p>
            </blockquote>





	working relationship

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks, again, to Ellie for the beta.

By the time the season starts Dylan and McNamara are solidified on the same line and have something of a working truce where they don't speak unless they're on the ice. It works well enough, and the team seems to understand that McNamara’s just weird about Dylan. Most of them give McNamara a pretty wide berth anyway, Dylan’s noticed, and he wonders whether that’s always been a thing or if it’s recent, a product of his descent into the depths of Deadspin fame. 

Dylan almost feels bad for getting along with everyone, but that’s how it’s always been, and it’s not like he doesn’t work hard at fitting in, being liked, because it’s all part of being on a team. There’s got to be chemistry off the ice or things don’t work. It’s something his coach on the Knights preached consistently, that it wasn’t enough for them to have each other’s backs on the ice, and Dylan’s pretty inclined to see the truth in that.

Besides, it’s not his problem that McNamara apparently hates him.

“I just don’t get it,” Dylan’s mumbling, a little drunk, to Nielsen the night after their first game. Starting the season on a home game’s always sweet, but losing 6-2 to the Canucks—the whole team’s hurting, hates to open the season with that kind of loss, so they’re out on orders from MacKinnon, who managed to get everyone underage into the bar without much hassle. “Like, not that it bothers me, but—” He stops at the unimpressed look on Nielsy’s face. 

“Kid,” Nielsen says. He attempts to wrench the beer out of Dylan’s fingers, but Dylan’s not having that. The bar’s not that full, mostly the team with a few others who keep their distance. Out of respect, Dylan hopes, or maybe they just don’t care to talk to a losing team. He frowns down at the table, forcing himself not to glance over to where McNamara’s holding court with a couple of girls, looser than normal from the booze. 

It’s not that he’s obsessing, it’s just rare that he can’t get along with someone, and McNamara’s determination only pisses him off more. 

“You’re obsessing,” Nielsen says, and Dylan blinks. He might’ve been talking out loud. Luckily it’s just the two of them and Jordan in the corner, so no one else has to witness him lose his shit.

Dylan shrugs his way out from under Jordan’s arm, ready to head to the bar for another drink, but Nielsen grabs his arm, steadies him when he wobbles. “Look, I’m gonna give you some advice, because apparently you need it,” Nielsen mutters, shaking his head. “Stop worrying about whether Ryan likes you. He’s got his own shit to deal with. You’re new to this team, so I wouldn’t expect you to know, like, how to handle him, but just let it go for now. Worry about your own game, hot shot.” Nielsen grins at the end, soft enough that Dylan knows he’s mostly kidding about the last part. 

Let it go. Yeah, because Dylan’s great at that. He nods to appease Nielsen, and tries not to get stuck thinking about McNamara as he makes his way to the bar. 

The bartender’s been the same girl all night, cute and blonde with a tattoo on her shoulder, and Dylan flirts a little while he orders another round for the table, figures it can’t hurt to take his mind off his teammates for a few minutes. 

“You a sports fan?” he asks, loud over the music. It’s generally the first question he asks anyone, because if the person’s not a hockey fan then they’re not really worth his time.

The bartender rolls her eyes, tilting the glass she’s filling so the foam slides over the edge. “Yes, I know who you are. No, I’m not impressed,” she says. 

Dylan raises his eyebrows. She’s blushing, and in his experience that just means she’d probably go home with him. He leans further over the bar, sliding the tray of drinks to his side so he’s got room, and grins. “What’s my name then, babe?”

There’s another guy waving a couple twenties at her to his left, and when she ignores him Dylan does a silent cheer in his head.

“Pearson, right? Dylan Pearson,” she says, put-upon, but her cheeks are still pink, and she’s leaning in closer too, mirroring him. It gets him a nice view of her tits, pushed up against her folded arms, and he doesn’t try to hide his gaze. 

“So you are a hockey fan,” he says appreciatively. “Avs? Or were you paying attention to me in particular?” The latter would mean she definitely knows he’s under 21, but clearly she doesn’t care, has been serving him all night without asking for an ID.

She drums her fingers against the bar, close to where he’s resting his own hand. “Avs, obviously. Colorado born and raised,” she says.

Dylan smiles. “Loyalty’s always good,” he says, raising his voice to be heard over the guy with the twenties, who’s clearly annoyed about being ignored. “I think Joe Schmoe over there’s getting impatient.” He cocks his head in the guy’s direction but doesn’t look away, knows how this goes if he keeps his eyes on hers, knows he’s attractive enough to get his dick sucked in the bathroom if he plays his cards right.

“Fuck Joe,” she says, and Dylan is definitely giving this girl a good tip, if only to make up for how he’s at fault for keeping her attention away from other patrons.

“I’d rather you didn’t,” he says, trying to think of a good segue into asking her to come back to his place later.

She glances over his shoulder and smirks, and Dylan doesn’t want to look, hasn’t thought about McNamara for a whole two minutes now. “Pretty sure your team’s getting impatient, too.”

Dylan sighs, swiveling to look at Turner, who’s waving his arms obnoxiously and mouthing something that looks like _beer me, fucker._ “You know what they say. Can’t keep a man from his booze,” he shrugs, pushing himself off the bar to grab the tray of drinks. 

“Do they say that?” she asks, rhetorical. “Listen, here—” She holds up a finger, so Dylan waits patiently for her to scribble her number and name onto a napkin and slide it over to him.

“Thanks,” he says, figures it can’t hurt to grab a local number or two for when they’ve got home stretches. He glances down at the napkin. “See y’around, Melissa.”

When he gets back to the table, McNamara’s alone again, girls no longer in sight, and something like satisfaction spreads through Dylan at that. It’s selfish and weird, not anything he wants to put a name to, but he feels like he’s won a round in this unspoken competition. A couple of guys give him fist bumps when he waves the napkin in front of them, bragging. Not McNamara, who’s lost the looseness from earlier and looks like he’d rather be anywhere but here. 

“Beer, Ryan?” Dylan says loudly, grinning when McNamara startles in his seat. He thinks he sees Nielsen shaking his head somewhere in his periphery and ignores it, sliding a beer across the wood when McNamara nods. Dylan takes one for himself, definitely doesn’t need another when they’ve got practice the next day but figures it’ll be his last.

*

He wakes up to his alarm at six-thirty the next morning, full of regret and not quite sure how he made it back to his apartment. That last drink had turned into shots, because MacKinnon is apparently a sadist, and Dylan’s so grateful for the glass of water sitting on his night stand that he doesn’t wonder who put it there, just gulps it down in thirty seconds flat. He’s battled through practice hungover before, though he’s never been much of a drinker, too careful of his status on the Knights to get drunk more than a handful of times. 

Practice is at eight, so he has time to make himself some eggs after he showers, which really is the only food he’s got in his apartment. He’s only been moved in for a week, let his agent do all the dirty work when it came to furnishing the place, so his walls are bare and he’s been living off of takeout. 

His stomach mostly settles after he gets to the rink, smell of sweat and ice inexplicably calming to him. He’s actually in an okay mood, the rest of the team filtering in in varying states of hungover, and he asks Charlie who managed to get him into his own bed, because he very seriously wants to thank that person.

Charlie looks shifty for some reason, pauses mid-way into his shoulder pads. “Oh, you know, a few of the guys. I think MacKinnon helped, you lightweight,” he adds, nudging Dylan’s arm.

“Fuck off, I am not,” he retorts, promptly forgetting about Charlie’s face and its expressions when Coach Lindberg walks in, calling for everyone to shut up.

Lindberg waits until everyone is sufficiently quiet, then says, “I know this is a little late, but I've got your room assignments for away games. Just a few last minute tweaks we had to take care of. Most of you guys are same as last year but come check in after practice anyway."

Dylan glances over at Charlie, who shrugs. 

“Okay. That’s it. See you on the ice,” Lindberg says, and then heads out.

Dylan finishes tying up his skates in silence, not quite comfortable asking who rookies usually room with on the road, especially when he figures no one would’ve requested him. He’ll find out after practice.

Standing, he grabs his helmet and stick, haphazardly shoving into his head as he follows Rowe down the hall onto the ice. McNamara’s already out there, skating circles around the far net, and Dylan just watches for a second, captivated by the sleek motion. He stares a second too long, startles when someone bumps into him by the boards, and when he looks back McNamara is watching him.

His cheeks immediately get hot and he turns around, skating over to where most of the guys are clustered at the blue line, and doesn’t check to see if McNamara has joined them. He feels caught, somehow, for reasons he can’t explain to himself, and he makes himself stare at the ice until he’s directed to the goal line for the drill. 

“What’s up with you?” Jordan nudges him into place. “You’re zoned the fuck out.”

Dylan manages a weak smile. “Yeah, sorry. Really hungover,” he lies, willing himself to snap out of—whatever it is that’s got him so latched onto McNamara’s presence. Clearly it’s not going to be easy to take Nielsen’s words from the night before to heart, and he shakes his head, rolls his shoulders back to release some of the tension.

Jordan laughs. “I feel that,” he says, and then he’s gone, up in front of the goal to take the shot off of O’Day’s pass.

Practice drags on for what feels like much longer than two hours, and Dylan’s a little out of breath by the time they head off the ice, winded from a combination of the altitude and hard work. Coach wasn’t happy with the loss, and Dylan’s feeling it in his thighs.

He undresses quickly enough that he’s the first to find out who he’s rooming with, would rather know so he can prepare to deal with whoever it is—he knows Holm is messy as shit, and Stanton snores like a bear, so he’s praying he gets someone easy.

“Pearson, hi,” Lindberg says, gruff as ever, when Dylan raps his knuckles against the doorway to his office. Dylan eyes his infamous goatee with a bit of envy.

“So, uh, you said to check in? About roommates?”

“Yeah, you’re in the right spot. Sit down for a moment,” he says, which confuses Dylan, but he goes with it.

“We’re going to have you room with McNamara,” Lindberg says once Dylan’s sitting. Oh. He presses his lips together, trying not to let exactly what he thinks of that show on his face, but he’s pretty sure he doesn’t succeed. 

“Now I know,” Lindberg continues, placating, “that you guys haven’t gelled that great off the ice. That’s part of why I think it’s the right call. The other side to it…” Lindberg trails off, this stern look on his face that reminds Dylan of his father, and Dylan remains silent. He’s not really sure what he wants to say, anyway, knows he can’t exactly fight the decision. “We—I—think it might be good for him. To have someone under his wing as, uh. Responsible as I know you are.”

Dylan feels his eyebrows creeping up and he flexes his fingers where they’re balled into a fist by his side. “So, what. I’m like, looking after him?”

“Not in so many words,” Lindberg shrugs. “Take it however you want.” 

Honestly, Dylan has so many responses to that, starting with how fucked up it his that he wants a rookie to keep an eye on their supposed star player, but he manages to keep his mouth shut until the urge passes. “Okay. Is that all?” His tone’s still polite, so that’s something. 

“Yep. Glad you’re on board, Pearson.”

Dylan makes what he knows is an ugly face as he walks out of the office. Rowe sees it and claps a hand to his chest, yells, “Whoever said you had a nice face lied, Pearson, they lied!” 

“Shut up, Rowe,” Dylan says, making his way back to grab his stuff before he leaves. He can’t wait to get the hell out of the rink, strangely wired and eager to go for a run, get some of the energy out of his system. 

Really, he’s not sure what possesses him to do it, but on his way out he stops at McNamara’s stall, waiting until he’s got his attention.

“What?” McNamara says.

“Just looking forward to our next game, roomie,” Dylan says, reckless and grinning. McNamara’s attitude’s kept up for weeks, and Dylan refuses to let it show that it’s affecting him, will keep that smile on his face at all costs.

When he’s halfway out the door he hears Nielsen say, “ _That’s_ gonna go well.” 

Dylan sighs. Yeah.

**Author's Note:**

> I'm (recently) on [tumblr](http://larraza.tumblr.com)!


End file.
